Silent Evil
by ArielRiv
Summary: Something is about to be unleashed. Something terrible. Nothing can prepare them for what they'll find. A new Resident Evil-Silent Hill corssover.


The man was ready to call it a night.

The report lay in front of him, partially scattered, documents dating back from the early sixties, all the way up until the past few years. Some were similar cases, whether through location, or by the event itself: technique: stylization. Others, by a cursory glance, were random, and probably irrelevant to anything. Even so, he re-read the paragraphs laid out in front of him, noting the morbid details. It made his skin crawl. Perhaps by coincidence.

It had taken nearly three months to gather everything. The researcher, a nondescript man in his mid fifties, with well-worn creases around his eyes from years of peering through old papers and documents, felt about ready to wrap up and call it a night. He was tired (no, _tired_ was three hours before) and ready to wrap up, lock up, and retire home for a beer in front of his tv, where he'd inevitably fall asleep.

He started to clean up his mess, but as always, his eyes strayed with interest on each article as he picked it up. He was used to reading disgusting things in his line of duty. But this..._three _months of reading this shit was beginning to wane him down to a puddle. His actual assignment had been prettying simple, given how intricate it had become: find articles of all kinds on every death-related case within fifty miles of the town. Whether it was a massive, or seemingly theft related. Whether it was murder, or accidental. If someone went missing, and was presumed dead, find the article.

Some people got their goodies off on weird things. The researcher had done work for these guys before. He used to be surprised at how many of them were law enforcement officials.

But even these papers...he put down a clip he'd been reading from 2004 about a young woman found slain in a subway train station, and rubbed his tired eyes. Maybe he was getting too old, but this was disgusting. Even for him. Even as he shut his lids, the headliners danced before his strained eyes in a macabre newscast.

_ Seven Children Now Missing._

_ Mysterious House Fire Leaves at Least One Dead._

_ Ritualistic Killings Stun Community._

Each one different, yet no less unnerving.

_ Damn. This guy doesn't joke around._

He sighed and finally stood up, listening to the creak of his limbs as they straightened and moan with complaint. He had a good two dozen articles lined up. From the internet, historical society, to the police station, he had suitably discovered absolutely everything that he had been asked to look into by his employer. Down to anything seemingly "dismissible or unrelated." Newspaper articles, police reports, magazine articles, even a few, long-forgotten emails that he was able to intercept, through the help of some friends and "colleagues" who used their talents for the same reason that he did. Albeit illegally.

Money.

And he had been offered a lot of it. A smile snuck onto his lips, a tiny smirk as he thought about how well compensated he was about to become for the past months once he presented his findings to the woman. He had been suspicious at first when she'd approached him. Sure, he had done plenty of business before for odd individuals, but the woman? She hardly looked the sketchy type. She knew it, too, and had been quick to assure him that she was _not _his employer; a mere "in between" for the big guy. And who was the big guy? The man could hardly care less, so long as he coughed up some clean cash. He had one golden rule in business.

Don't learn too much about who hired him. As long as they didn't ask how he got his information, he didn't ask about _why _they needed it.

He took a moment, straightening up, to tuck all of the papers back into the nondescript, black folder, taking care to not crease any of the precious documents. He tucked it into a leather shoulder bag, and started out the door of the small office.

Everyone else had left the building for the night. It was a crummy, tiny building, in a terrible part of town, and for that, his work was safe guarded. The only other occupants of the place was a small, unknown tabloid company, run by no more than six people-college dropouts who probably thought they were just hilarious-who spent more time getting high than they did coming up with anything worthy of printing. Appearance-wise, it made his business, on the exterior, seem wholesome and legitimate.

**Personal Researcher.**

He had done plenty of work for people looking into old birth records, to students with an extra fifty who wanted research on their papers done. Easy stuff. Stuff that wouldn't have gotten him in trouble. He could do that stuff in his sleep. But his _real _talents were done under the table.

The rest of that part of town seemed like they had retired. The front door revealed a dark street, with scarce lighting. The man took a moment to pull out a cigarette from his pocket, followed by a lighter. He paused on the stoop, flicking on the light, and inhaling deeply as the tobacco caught the flame. He took am appreciative moment to smoke, letting the smoke curl around his haggard face, liking the tickling sensation it left behind.

The walk home took ten minutes, in which time he decimated another cigarette, flicking the bud onto road, still smoking, as he opened the front door to his apartment building.

He was thinking about food as he opened the front door (frozen general tso's, or chicken pot pie?), and walked straight into the kitchen, dropping the shoulder bag on his table as he opened up the dinghy fridge, fishing out a Pabst. Walking into the living room, he popped it open and thirstily drank half of it in a few, huge gulps. He belched.

"Excuse you."

He nearly choked on the next sip, and yelped, jumping back, eyes bulging at the figure. "Jesus _fucking _Christ!"

It was her. The woman. The "in between" between him and his employer. She seemed amused, standing by the window, appeasing him over her shoulder. She was looking down at the street, and he realized that she must have seen him coming. Must have prepared herself for _exactly_ the type of reaction she had elicited. The thought pissed him off. He swiped at the foam around his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" He demanded, his heart still pounding.

She calmly turned to face him, the smile still on her face.

"Your door was unlocked."

As though it excused everything. She walked towards him, and he, for reasons he couldn't quite explain, felt the need to back away.

_ Don't be crazy. _He tried to be sensible with himself. _She's just a rich bitch._

She had introduced herself merely as "Ada". No last name. She was an Asian-American, probably Chinese, he had decided. She was a gorgeous woman. She had come to him in his office, and at first, for a _fraction _of a second, he had honestly thought that he was about to be solicited sex by some ballsy hooker off the street.

Of course, she didn't _look_ like a hooker, per se. She was dressed too nice, for one thing. Plus, she carried herself with far too much poise. Every movement seemed deliberate and under careful, perfect control, as though she carried herself with the upmost importance. She was graceful. Slender woman, but he could see the curve of her muscles beneath her arms and legs. He suspected that she was far stronger than she looked.

The man took another gulp of his beer, trying to not let his composure waver as Ada seated herself at his couch. As usual, she was dressed as though she had just stepped out of one of those nice store-front windows from the nicer shopping district. She wore a red top, tight, leather pants, and thigh-high, black, high-heeled boots that added an extra five inches to her already long frame. The look that she gave him made some of his anger waver into uncertainty. She looked like a panther, seizing up its prey.

_How do you know where I live, lady? _He wanted to ask, but the question hesitated in his throat. Did he want to know? "I thought we were meeting tomorrow." He said, putting a now-empty can down on the coffee table, going for a safer route.

"Our guy was getting impatient." She said, sitting back into the worn sofa comfortably. "He just wanted me to check up on you. To see if we could maybe cut things a little short."

"Fine with me." He said immediately. "Hell, if I can skip a day of reading those articles, it will just be a bonus. Your guy, whoever he is, is into some dark stuff." He felt bold enough to drop a wink. "But, we all have our kinks."

Ada didn't smile. "I trust that you feel that you've comfortable collected everything there was to see?"

"If I missed anything, I'll serve up my hand along with the articles. Trust me: I'm the best there is when it comes to uncovering this shit. Not to brag, but," He shrugged, and seated himself in an arm chair, taking another swig of his drink."It's true. Not to name drop, but you'd be shocked at what types of people like political candidates will stir up to throw off the competition. They play dirty. They want the ugly scoop on their component, they come to me. I'll find it."

"Good to know," Ada said drily. "I'll keep that in mind when I run for president."

"You got my number."

"Right now, what I _don't "got" _are those files."

"They're inside." He paused. "Right now? You wanna do this transaction now?"

"No," She said, a bit impatiently. "I thought I'd come over so that we could swap recipes."

He held up his hands defensively, and stood quickly as her eyes glinted angrily. "Say no more. I'll grab 'em." _Don't get your panties in a wad. Jesus._

He went back into the kitchen and grabbed the shoulder bag, chastising himself: He'd done this so many times before, so why was this time so much more...intense? Was it just the woman? Ada...if that was her real name. Something about her made him nervous, though he couldn't put his finger on it, and not just because she had waltzed into his home uninvited. There was something utterly cold in her eyes: he saw zero empathy.

_ Am I working for some sociopaths?_

Bringing the bag back into the living, he elected to stay standing as Ada carefully reached inside the satchel. She didn't open the folder, as he would have suspected, but merely placed it on her lap. When she looked up at him next, the feral look in her eyes was gone. She seemed placated, physically holding the papers. He felt his own shoulders relaxed as she regarded him with her dark eyes, looking curious.

"What do you make of this?" She wanted to know. "Off the record."

He blinked. "I honestly don't know."

She tapped a long fingernail against the cover of the folder, making an empty _tap tap tap_ noise. "You spent three months reading over these, day after day, and you drew no ideas from it." She stated, as though he sudden existence suddenly was a folly.

He shrugged again, a little helplessly, unsure of how to respond. "I just collect the documents. I don't try to piece together little stories with them. That your job, right?"

She didn't like the answer. She stood up, and walked back over to the window, gazing out at the landscape, the folder held tightly at her chest.

"I mean." The guy went one, trying to mend what had clearly been a wrong answer. "Other than the fact that this place-this Silent Hill-seems pretty fucked up, if you had to ask me my honest opinion..." He hesitated. "Those deaths...they're related somehow, huh? Not all of them, but he's looking for a through line. Isn't he?"

She didn't respond.

"Well." He shrugged, again, still not understanding what had made the woman so unhappy. She seemed almost dismayed that he had found _something. _Like she'd been hoping for a contrary answer. Whatever. Woman. "You could look for yourself, if you wanted."

"No," She said, softly. "He'd know if looked."

"Who?"

For a moment, he wondered if she hadn't heard the question, but in the next, she turned back around, and the man took a staggered step back as the color left his face. She held a gun.

"Thank you," She said graciously. Her red lips stretched into a smile. "For your help. My employer and I are in your debt."

Before he could move, or scream, the trigger was pulled.


End file.
